Pepperwood
by Captain Crunk
Summary: AU. Nick Miller, New York Times bestselling author of Pepperwood, teams up with executive producer Schmidt to make his zombie detective novel into a zombie detective movie. With things not going as smoothly as planned, the casting of Jessica Day as Jessica Knight might just turn around Nick's movie- and his life.
1. i'm aware i'm a king

Thank you to aprms for the idea and NewGirl78 for the edits. I give you: Pepperwood.

* * *

Nick Miller hated Schmidt's office more than any other place in the world.

For one, the entire wall behind Schmidt's desk was pure glass, so you couldn't look at him without being blinded and if the sun was at the right angle he would have a ridiculously out of place halo. On top of that, it had this black tiled floor that was polished to the point where someone could see their reflection. That sure as hell wasn't an accident. The two guest chairs were uncomfortable, with the backs sticking forward at an odd angle. His desk was stupid-big and too ornately carved ("Ash, baby, cash ash yeaaah," Schmidt had told him about the wood without being asked). And the worst part was a huge signed picture of Schmidt hanging on the wall in this ridiculous winking pose. Sometimes when they'd meet Nick would catch real-Schmidt staring at poster-Schmidt.

Nick Miller wasn't very fond of Schmidt, either, like the way his hair was always slicked back and he always wore sunglasses indoors and at night. When prompted, Schmidt told him that the sun never goes down on a badass, and that made Nick dislike him even more. The thing that kept him from really hating Schmidt was that he was damn good at his job, and his job was making movies. On top of that, Schmidt was a huge Julius Pepperwood fan, so finally, Pepperwood would be a movie.

The only thing that interrupted Nick from thinking about how much he disliked Schmidt was the man himself, striding in five minutes fashionably late and shouting, "Nick Milla Nick Milla!" in just far too loud of a voice for the office. "Sorry I'm late my fly author friend, the Starbucks baris-tard got my order wrong like four times. Venti caramel macchiato, skim, extra shot, extra-hot, extra-whip, sugar-free. How hard is that?"

"I forgot the first words you said by the time you finished what you were saying," Nick answered honestly with a shrug while Schmidt got settled across the desk from him.

Schmidt, though, hadn't heard that at all. He was busy getting papers out of his briefcase with exaggerated motions and flipping his sunglasses off. "So Mister Milla, I've got some very good news for you," he began with a wide grin.

"And what would that be?" Nick asked, knowing that Schmidt wouldn't say until he did.

"Glad you asked! I found a guy for our villain. Got the contract signed last night," he boasted, giving his skinny tie a proud little adjustment.

Nick was a little worried. He thought that Thresh, the villain "zombie", would be particularly hard to cast. "Soo… who do we have?"

"Two words: Winston. Bishop."

Nick was sure he had heard the name before. But, it just wasn't coming to him. "Who?"

Schmidt rolled his eyes and sighed. "The former Los Angeles Laker. Point guard."

"Oh! Wait. Why?" Nick asked, concerned. An athlete?

Schmidt held up three fingers and ticked the reasons off as he said them: "Thresh is intimidating, Winston can be intimidating. We need people to watch our movie, people like watching Winston. Winston wants to do it, and we want Winston to do it for reasons one and two." Nick was eyeing him skeptically, so he pushed on. "Look, I know he's not an actor, exactly, but I think this is a good direction for us!"

"Giving out movie roles to people who aren't actors?" Nick shot back, fuming. Every time Schmidt had touched something in this movie, he changed it in a way Nick hadn't liked. First, he tried convincing Nick to change the story to Portland, because "Portland is sexy right now." Nick was not having that. And now, he was casting some washed-up former basketball player with chronic knee injuries as a complex and intricate villain.

"You're just gonna have to trust me on this one, Nick," Schmidt insisted with a shrug.

Nick shifted uncomfortably. "I already don't like who you casted for Julius."

"Krummy? He's my boy!" Schmidt defended.

"He looks too nerdy!" Nick hollered, throwing his hands up in frustration. Nick was slightly biased by David Krumholtz's five year stint as a television crime-solving mathematician, but the man did look nowhere near as gritty as Nick had intended for Pepperwood to be.

Schmidt rubbed his face in his hands and pressed his eyes. This author was getting to be a handful. People had warned him about how tricky adaptations can be, but Pepperwood looked like a sure thing on paper. Now, he was less sure. "Look, Nick. I'll tell ya what. I'll let you pick our Jessica Knight. The three finalists come in for their last readings today and I'll let you sit in and pick the one. And lemme tell ya, we have some _heavy_ hitters lined up for this one, some real star power."

"Like who?" Nick asked, placated but skeptical.  
"Well, first off is Emily Deschanel. Her show Bones is ending so she has tons of experience working with crime stuff."

"Isn't she a little old?"

Schmidt waved off his concern. "We'd make it work. Secondly, we have- I'm glad you're sitting because this is big news- _the _Katy Perry."

"The pop singer?" These options were looking worse as he went along.

"I know, I know, another non-traditional one, but her documentary reviews were wonderful! Plus, she'd get people into seats. And she's very enthusiastic. She's a bona-fide triple threat."  
Nick sat back and thought for a minute before asking, "She can dance?"  
"Oh, that's the third thing? Fine, she's a double threat." Schmidt paused a moment and got a mischievous look in his eye before winking at Nick and pointing to his own chest. "If you know what I mean."

Nick rolled his eyes at Schmidt's crudity. "Yeah, yeah. Anybody else?"  
Schmidt shuffled through some papers before picking one out. "Well, one more. Kind of. She's a pretty big long shot. I brought her in because she matches the physical description, and she had really good readings, but she's not really the potential breakout star or established talent I'm looking for."  
Nick gave Schmidt a glare and deadpanned, "You hired Winston Bishop. His established talent is shooting free throws — poorly. Who is it?"  
"Her name is Jessica Day."

"Who?" Nick asked after a few seconds pause.  
Schmidt pointed as if to say _that's what I meant_ before following up with, "Exactly. She was in, uhh, _A Year and a Half of Autumn_, _Gnome_, some shitty horror movie…"

"Yeah, I think I've heard of her. "

"Good. So, we start the readings a little after one. Come by my office quarter to and we'll head out together, and you can pick your Jessica Knight. Sound good?"

Nick nodded. "Alright. I'll see this afternoon." He stood and started to leave, before calling, "Until then," over his shoulder and walking out.

And frankly, he was just as happy to be out of there as Schmidt was to have him out.

Writers, man.

* * *

Nick was wholly underwhelmed by the selection of actresses so far. Emily Deschanel was too much of a serious know-it-all without the lighthearted spunk he was looking for. He felt like she was just missing the point. On the other hand, Perry had plenty of the super-annoying flightiness down, but he felt like it would be a constant uphill struggle trying to get her to look like a know-it-all.

It was all down to Jessica Day.

She came into the room in a navy dress that went down to mid-thigh and these show-stopping big blue eyes. She looked like a woman made decades ago and preserved, sent from heavenly host to walk delicate steps on the same earth that housed Nick Miller for reasons he would never fathom nor stop appreciating. It was refreshing to see her come in without fanfare, simply shaking Schmidt's hand instead of some complicated cheek kissing ritual that the others did. The clarity of her voice surprised him, strong and deep and true and piercing to the part of him that was still a small boy, prone to being captured by awe. And even more awe-struck was he by her smile, equal parts nervous and warm, more genuine than he had seen from anyone since he had stepped off the plane at LAX. There was so much happening now, movement and sitting, and the reading began with Nick hardly noticing.

"Julius, we need to help her! I'm not saying that because she's a zombie. And not because she's a woman. But because she needs help and there's nowhere else for her to turn in this damn town."

"Damnit Knight, you're right." Krumholtz's voice sounded distant, like it was coming from beneath layers of ice.

But Day's rang true, splitting him to his core, when she chimed, "And you know how much I love to hear it!" But what sold Nick on her – beyond the eyes and the skin and the voice and the way his heart felt still around her, like a bowl of water left out in the sun – what really sold Nick on her was her smile. Her genuine smile. How he knew that this was the girl who did love to hear Pepperwood say she was right. How this was his Jessica Knight.

Schmidt might grumble and grouse about it when he told him. He would show him potential sales numbers, talk about how Perry was moldable or some such bull. But Schmidt backed himself into this hole. Jessica Day would be his Jessica Knight.

* * *

Jessica Day was all that was on his mind as he made his way back to the apartment. She was gonna save this movie, he knew it. He could already see her stealing the show. Schmidt would see. She was perfect.

_Perfect for the role_, he reasoned to himself. _Perfect to be Jessica Knight_. And yet, his mind was already running away, taking him places like a writer's mind was apt to do, thinking of her smooth paleness more than strictly in terms of a character. But he shook that off- it wasn't going to be like that.

He got back to the apartment just in time for dinner, smelling take-out Italian as he made his way into the small kitchenette. Waiting for him was a note from his live-in gal: _Got you Villa Cavadelli's – I'm going out drinking with the girls, be home late. Hope today went well! –Caroline_.

He read it twice and sighed. Guess it would just be him, the typewriter, and the cat tonight. And maybe some unfortunate musings about one Jessica Day.

* * *

_He threw his hat on the desk, looking surly first thing in the morning. Knight was typing away as always and gave him a cheery, "Morning Chief!" before resuming her work._

_Julius grumbled his good morning back and asked if there was any business to be taken care of._

_"There's a woman who dropped by a little earlier looking for you, I told her you'd be in around ten so she said she'd come back."_

_"A woman? Human, or…"_

_"Nope, she's turned," she replied cheerily. She might've been a know-it-all at times, but she never lost her good mood and she never judged anybody. In a way, she was the perfect person to have working in the detective business- a sweet milk that refused to sour._


	2. even if the sky is falling down

Thanks to NewGirl78 for editing.

* * *

**One month after casting**

_"__My husband is missing. I hear you're the only one in town willing to help a gal like me." With that, she gestured to her body. He could see the grayed flesh of her arms and legs, the veins risen to the surface of her face, her eyes shrunk just enough to look small in their sockets. She was still a haunting kind of beautiful despite it._

_Pepperwood rubbed his two-day beard. "I dunno. I'll talk it over with my assistant," he offered, motioning to Jessica sitting at her desk, typing something out._

_The zombie rose with a nod of her head and looked to over to Jessica. "Please – both of you – I think something is going on. With the whole city. And I'm just one zombie caught up in this mess and I need you. We need you." And with that, she strode out._

_"This might be getting in too deep," Pepperwood grumbled with a shake of his head._

* * *

"AND, CUT!" yelled Russel Shiller. Here was one thing that Nick could go for in this production – the directorial prowess. Schmidt had broken the bank, getting the man behind _Trainspotting _and _Slumdog Millionarie_, where he proved his ability to adapt books, and _28 Days Later_, where he established his zombie cred. As far as Nick Miller was concerned, the man was a legend.

Schmidt pumped his fist, the first scene of Pepperwood officially recorded, and called everyone to him. Everyone on set – Nick included – huddled in a circle around Julius Pepperwood's desk, which Schmidt had taken to standing on in order to give his announcement.

"Laaaaaadies and gentlemen, I would first like to say: congratulations. It has been months in the making, but we have finally shot the first scene of Pepperwood. Acting title. To celebrate this wonderful event, I would like to invite you all to a little soiree –" Nick snorted, and heard Winston Bishop snort next to him. Maybe this guy wasn't so bad after all, "At El Casa De Schmidt. Feel free to bring friends – the more the merrier, the more famous the better," he finished with a wink, jumping off the desk as the crowd dispersed.

Nick was walking away when he felt a hand clap on to his shoulder.

"Hey Nicky-" Schmidt half-whispered in his ear, "Great first day of shooting."

He didn't like being called Nicky, but going with it might end this conversation faster. "Yeah, it went well. Your Pepperwood isn't as awful as I was expecting."

Schmidt laughed it off, saying, "I knew you'd come around. So, you'll be there tonight, right?"

"Yeah," Nick conceded, "I guess I can drop by for a bit. Caroline is always complaining about how I've hardly made any friends here in LA."

"Look, Nick, one thing about tonight," Schmidt warned, "I swear to fucking god, if you wear a flannel to my party, so help me." He kept serious eye contact with Nick for a second before leaning back and laughing like a hyena. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding! Lighten up! Now get outta here, you rascal."

Nick rolled his eyes and walked off set. He wasn't looking forward to this, but it beat another night of staring at his typewriter and hoping it would rattle off something new for the New York Times to put on its bestseller list.

* * *

Nick was shaving for the first time in two weeks when Caroline came home. She insisted that she didn't want to be sitting around the apartment all day for weeks so she had gotten a job as a librarian around town. She stumbled upon him shaving in the bathroom and asked, "Going somewhere tonight?"

But she asked in the kind of way that really pissed Nick off, like she expected him to say no. Like she expected him to be doing nothing. He dropped his razor in the sink and followed her into the bedroom. "Why the hell you gotta ask it like that?" he interrogated, his neck still covered in shaving cream.

"Like what?" she responded with an innocent tone, not bothering to look up at him.

"Like you don't even wanna hear the answer. Like you're just asking so you can hear me say 'no'."

She snorted and rolled her eyes, saying, "Well it isn't my fault if the answer is always either 'no' or 'to the bar to drink alone'."

He was fuming, his hands clenched at his sides. "Well I would have more to do if you were ever home at night."

"Well all I ever do when I'm home is sit around and listen to you complain about LA or about how you can't think of anything to write! "she glowered, standing up to face him now.

He was pissed, but didn't feel like going through the whole argument. Again. He smacked his fist into the doorframe on the way out, feeling stupid for ever planning to take her to this party. They had been falling apart, and all Nick felt like he could do was just try to weather it and power through. Maybe after all of this movie shit was over they could just go on a nice long vacation and get back to being Nick and Caroline, instead of Nick. And Caroline.

As she passed the bathroom on her way out she stated, "I'm going to Tanya's house, we'll probably catch a movie, I might be home late."

Nick couldn't help but grumble, "Of course you are," but she ignored it. He wasn't sure if she had even heard him, but the way she slammed the door gave him his answer. The apartment rattled for a second and he could see her cat – sorry, "their" cat – jump in the living room.

As if he wasn't dreading this party enough, now he was going alone and in a bad mood.

* * *

The party was the kind he could hear as he rounded the block of Schmidt's gated community. There was absolutely no doubt as to which house it was. He could swear that the entire thing was shaking from the bass. He parked seven or so houses down, but with the size of them it felt like he had to walk a half-mile to get there.

The door was unlocked and the first thing that greeted him was Schmidt in a florescent pink button-up and white jeans. Nick tried saying, "Hey," but it was so drowned out by the music that he wasn't sure he said anything at all.

"DUDE! SO HAPPY YOU MADE IT! YOU WANNA MEET FUCKED UP MICHAEL CERA?" Schmidt yelled, excitement apparent from his slightly reddened face.

Nick was lost by what seemed to be a nonsensical string of words. "WHAT? I CAN HARDLY HEAR YOU!"  
"MICHAEL CERA IS DOING COKE OFF THE CALCUTTA MARBLE COUNTERS OF MY KITCHEN ISLAND! YOU SHOULD MEET HIM!"

Nick rolled his eyes at everything about that statement. "NO THANKS! I'M GONNA HEAD OUTSIDE!"

"COOL!"

They made their separate ways, Schmidt back into the clusterfuck of a party in his living room and Nick finding a door into the backyard. He grabbed a Heisler from a cooler outside, so it wasn't a total bust of a night, but it wasn't exactly looking up, either. At least out here, the music was a reasonable volume.

He stood around for a minute, not really knowing what to do. Russell was talking to the equally famous actress cast as the beautiful zombie, Kristen something, but he felt far too intimidated to go join in with that conversation. People sat around the pool, nobody really going into it.

He walked to the far end of the pool and slipped his canvas sneakers off before tugging his socks off with them. Heisler in hand, he rolled up his khakis as best he could and dipped his feet into the pool to take in the scene before him. This was something he used to do back in Chicago- go to a public place and just watch people. Sometimes he would imagine how things would be if they were all zombies instead. But here, with all of these famous rich people being dull next to a pool, he felt bored.

Still, he was lost in thought enough not to notice someone coming up next to him until he saw smooth legs in his periphery. He looked over and up to meet her big blue eyes, glowing with a flat light like stars. A chill coursed through him, unlike the one from the beer or the late-summer pool.

Her smile would've taken out his legs if he wasn't already sitting. "This spot taken, pardner?" she offered in a faux cowboy accent, tapping the concrete next to him with her feet.

All Nick could do at first was shake his head before remembering that he should probably say something. "No, no, go ahead and sit," he rushed out, even scooching to the side to give her more room despite her having a few feet to his side to sit on. She smiled broader and handed him her beer while she swept her dress under her and sat, removing her flats so she could dangle her legs into the pool like him.

He looked at her for another moment or two before feeling self-conscious about staring and looking away. They sat in a half-comfortable silence while Nick internally freaked out, realizing just now that he had spent most of the last month thinking about this impossibly gorgeous woman and now he was sitting inches from her. It was intimidating to a degree that Nick had never known and he was nervously scratching the label off of his beer with his thumb, not knowing to stare at the party or look at her or say something or not –

"So, how do you like it?" she asked, cutting short his steadily mounting panic.

"Like what, now?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. The party. All of this," she gestured with her beer-free hand.

Nick let out a breath. "It… it sucks. I'm not a fan. I don't fit in very well with you Hollywood-types."

"'You Hollywood types?'" She let out a snort. "I taught sixth graders up until four years ago. Still have no idea what I'm doing here."

He smiled at this. "Yeah. It feels like I just graduated college all over again."

"Right! And now I have a whole real life ahead of me and no idea where I'm even starting!" She was beaming now and the comfortable conversation Nick was feeling evaporated with the small reminder of just how attractive this woman was. Her eyes in the moonlight looked like the result of weeks of post-production, constant edits to find the perfect shade of blue.

"I'm from Portland," she continued, not at all feeling the same trepidation that was gripping Nick. "I'm guessing you're from Chicago?"

"My accent that bad?" he joked.

She giggled. "No, but the book is set there, I just figured."

"Oh, yeah," conceded, pleasantly surprised she had read the book. "So, you've actually gone through_ Pepperwood_?"

"All of us have," she revealed. "Schmidt made us. I mean, I had before then, anyway. My dad encouraged me to a few months ago. He's thrilled that I'm doing the movie."

Nick was thrown off by the fact that Schmidt made the cast read the book – he had said how much he loved it when he was trying to convince Nick to sign over the rights, but Nick didn't actually think he meant it. Apparently, though, Schmidt was an actual Pepperwood fan.

"Cool. How'd you like the book?"

Jessica thought for a moment, taking a sip of her beer. "Honestly? At first I wasn't a huge fan," she admitted, and looked relieved when he laughed, causing her to laugh too. "Really! My dad, Bob, he's all about that zombie stuff, but it always weirded me out. But something about the book – I think it's how zombies aren't the bad guys, they're just a part of society, they're misunderstood and oppressed – I dunno, I really liked it."

"I'm very happy to hear that," Nick affirmed. "Enjoying working on the movie?"

She nodded. "Totally. There is one thing, though, that I think we should do."

"And what's that?"  
"Well, maybe for the dvd extras," she began tentatively, "We can get the whole cast and crew and… do the Thriller dance?"

Nick threw his head back in laughter. "Jessica, that's the best idea I've heard since we've started this, we've gotta tell Schmidt."

"Thank you! I hope you know you're fulfilling a lifetime dream of mine here."

"Am I?"

"Yeah. I tried to get my whole sweet sixteen doing the dance, but nobody was up for it," she admitted, leading to more laughter from the both of them. Nick could hardly believe he was having such a relaxed conversation with this woman he couldn't get out of his head all month.

"Well then, I'm happy to make the dream come true," he said once he had settled down a bit.

They lapsed back into silence, looking across the pool at the house. It was monstrous, three floors with like seven bathrooms. A green light hung on the porch and reflected across the enormous pool and when Nick wasn't sneaking glances at his new drinking buddy, he was transfixed on the green light.

"It all feels a little like a dream come true," she muttered, absently, before continuing, "Except not."

Nick took a swig from his near-empty bottle. "Yeah. This whole town is a movie star that just doesn't look the same in the morning."

"Huh," she responded. "That was really writer-ish."

He chuckled against the lip of his bottle. "Yeah, I have my moments." _Though not many lately_, he tacked on in his head.

"Indeed you do, Nick Miller," was her spacey reply. She patted his hand and it felt a little bit electric before she began to rise. "I told myself I was only going to have one beer and get home to call mom; we're both doing the same paint by numbers picture while we talk to each other on the phone this week."

Nick's forehead creased. "Really?"

"Yeah!" she replied, more excited. She was kicking her legs out to try to dry them, and nearly stumbled when she did it too vigorously. As she slipped her flats back on, she explained, "And then we send each other them when we're done and right on the fridge they go!"

Again, Nick Miller was full of laughter from her infectious energy. Who imagined a big famous movie star like this being such an odd, genuine person? "I'll have to try that sometime," he said while he stood.

By the time he reached his full height, he realized just how close they were. She stuck her hand out and he took it in his, noting the softness, and shook. "It was lovely talking to you, Mr. Miller."

"As it was you, Ms. Day," he countered with a tip of his imaginary cap. "I'll see you on set." She nodded and they both smiled as she walked away. He watched her, fingers loosely gripping his beer in the hand that hung at his side, while she made her way around the pool and back into the house. After she was gone, swallowed up into that black hole of a "soiree", he stood alone and far from the house, focused in again on the green light hanging over the porch. He drained the last of his beer and sat back from the pool, on the grass while he let out a slow, rattling breath. Something about this scene – the light, the girl, the warmth in his fingertips that was the last vestige of her touch – told him that he would be coming back to it for a long time.

* * *

_She was back the next day. Pepperwood still wasn't satisfied with his decision and decided he needed to think on it more, so the beautiful zombie just sat in his office and talked to him for a bit. She ran a finger down Pepperwood's arm, cooing, "So, how'd you meet this Jessica Knight, anyway?"_

_Pepperwood shrugged it off. He wasn't lifeist or anything, he just wasn't interested in her like that. He did, however, take a second to consider her question before answering._

_"I dunno. I guess – after everything that's happen, people just – find each other. People just look through the shit and the muck of this failed city and sometimes, they see eyes looking back at them. And I'm not thrilled with her all the time, cause god knows she can get under my skin like nobody but my late ma, but we need each other in a weird guiding way. I'm her lighthouse and she's mine."_

_He looked out a window at the run-down factory across the street from his office, momentarily forgetting about the leggy undead babe sitting next to him, and thought that if he found somebody's eyes looking back at him, at least Knight's were nice to look at._


	3. i wait but i'm too tired to play pretend

Many blessings upon Newgirl78.

* * *

Chapter 3

_"Julius, we need to help her! I'm not saying because she's a zombie. And not because she's a woman. But because she needs help and there's nowhere else for her to turn in this damn town," she finished, pink-cheeked with glasses slightly askew._

_Julius looked torn, biting on his thumb to keep from having to admit it. Finally, he knew there was only one thing he could say, much as he hated to say it: "Damnit Knight, you're right."_

_The brought a smile to her face "And you know how much I love to hear it!"_

* * *

They were a month and a half into filming before Nick Miller's world really went to shit.

"DRAG you out here? Caroline, you're the one that said I should do the damn movie in the first place!"

"Do you think this is what I _wanted_? You, moping and sitting around all day? I just want us to be happy. Like we were back in Chicago. Not – "

But Nick didn't want to hear it anymore. He had been hearing it damn near every day for weeks. His fury bubbled up and exploded with a, "_FUCK IT_. Fuck it. If you don't want to be here, then just leave." He slammed the door on his way out and into the warm early-autumn air of a Los Angeles September Saturday.

He barely just made it out of the apartment when he got a text from Schmidt: _My office in twenty? Got bad news_.

* * *

Schmidt was waiting for him this time, and hardly his jubilant self. In fact, if Nick thought Schmidt could ever be nervous, this was it. Sunglasses off, mouth set in a serious line.

The cast and crew had just spent a month shooting in Vancouver or Toronto or some other Canadian city that, according to Schmidt, looked more like Chicago than Chicago and was cheaper to shoot in. Maybe this morose mood was just the effect Canada had on Schmidt – but more likely, there was a big problem.

"Hey Nick. I'm just gonna be upfront here – I'm just as caught off guard by this as anyone. Take a seat." Nick could feel his stomach drop out from under him. He sat and waited for Schmidt to continue. "There's been an issue on set. While we were in Toronto, a tabloid snapped a picture of our director getting his swerve on with one of the actresses.

Nick's heart stopped for a second before asking, "Which?"

"Our Melanie, the 'damsel in zombie distress'', as played by Kristen Stewart."

Nick released a breath he didn't know he was holding, thankful it was _that_ actress. Admittedly, he knew nothing about Jessica in terms of significant other, but she didn't wear a ring and nobody was ever with her on set. And yes, he _did_ have a significant other. So he didn't exactly have any particular reason to be concerned with Miss Day's love life. But the thoughts hadn't gone away.

"Okay. So… what?" was Nick's delayed reply, wondering where this was going.

"Well, the issue is that Russel has a wife – Ouli Shiller, you may have heard of her, cinematographer, no, ok – and he would very much like to stay married to her. So to appease her, he's agreed to drop the movie," Schmidt disclosed, looking grave as ever but with the slightest deepest sparkle of the joy of spreading gossip, despite the grim news.

On the bright side, it wasn't Jess. On the less bright side, this is the worst news he could have heard, except for, for instance, _Jess was caught macking on the director_. Russell was one of the bright spots of all of this and now he was out.

"So who the hell is directing our movie now?"

Schmidt smiled for a second, saying, "See! I knew you'd start calling it our movie!" but looked markedly less upbeat at Nick's glare. "Well, to be perfectly honest, I don't know. We have a few candidates, but nobody with his experience or gra_vit_as."

"Shit," was all Nick could utter. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers into them, having what was just about the worst day since he had come to LA.

Schmidt rushed to re-assure him. "Look, Nick. This is what I do. I make movies. I make magic happen. I'm going to get this settled and we'll have a director and resume filming right here in LA tomorrow. I want you on set to bolster everyone's mood, okay, make sure things look like they're going well?"

Nick nodded, feeling himself shaking a bit. He had to trust in Schmidt. Schmidt had gotten him this far, and, like it or not, he was the expert here. "Okay. I'm gonna… I'm gonna hit the bar. If you need me, call me."

Schmidt nodded, mostly relieved that he didn't have to deal with a Nick Miller freakout. "Cool, cool. Do it up playa, yeah yeah! Go get weird out there. You know what time it is?"

Nick turned around at the door. "What time is it, Schmidt."

"It's Miller time!" He looked so damn impressed with himself for that one.

"Never again, Schmidt."

* * *

Micky's South Side would be a pathetic excuse for a sports bar in Chicago, but here in LA it passed muster with flying colors. It was a little too cramped from every side, a too many stools at the bar kind of deal, but Nick always looked surly enough to drive away people looking to strike up conversation. And sure, the bar occasionally committed a cardinal bar sin by playing _Blame it on the Alcohol _or something to try being cute, but it was a pretty low-key place overall.

On this particular night, however, Nick couldn't even muster up the will to look surly. Russel Shiller was one of the best parts of this movie, taking the book and adapting it into on-screen gold. He refined Thresh into something even Nick feared. He made fake Chicago come to after-life with the same vision that guided Nick. But apparently, he couldn't keep it in his pants. A damn shame all around.

After an hour or so of two beers, his dark corner at the end of the bar got a visitor. Nick Miller wasn't hit on very often, mostly thanks to his view of shaving as "fancy-schmancy" rather than "basic grooming". Caroline's position had evolved from finding him ruggedly handsome to irritatingly stubbly of late, but she didn't nag him enough to inspire him to shave (despite her best efforts).

The woman pulled up a bar stool next to him and ordered a beer before turning to him. "You look familiar. I've seen that face before."

Nick, though, wasn't in the mood for conversation, so he shrugged it off by saying, "My condolences."

"Ha ha. Funny guy. Comedian?"  
"Nah, writer."

She hmmed at that and paid for her beer, taking back a first sip. "A writer? Sad, in the corner of a bar? I can see it. Written anything good?"  
"Pepperwood," he grunted out, still not feeling like conversation. "I was on the dust jacket, maybe that's where you saw me."

"Yeah! The grizzly one! I remember your picture. Pretty okay book. Heard they're making a movie."

Nick snorted at her assessment of his novel. Even people who weren't into it usually lied- it wasn't often that someone had the balls to call your work of art "pretty okay". He looked at her then, interested in seeing what this woman was like. At first glance, she looked a lot like Jess, big eyes and bangs and pale skin, dressed kinda funny. Everything was off though, as if making Jess required some previous practice, like this girl was some kinda prototype.

They pair fell into easy conversation, Nick feeling different than the depressed lump he had been in Los Angeles or the bashful schoolboy he found himself acting like around Jess. She was fun, dynamic, a little Jessica Knight, a little Jessica Day. She swore up and down that she just came to talk to him because he looked sad on his own, but they had fallen into comfortable flirting when she told him, "Y'know, I'd have figured you'd be asking me for my number by now."

Nick looked her in the eyes, a deep blue, but not sparkling, and could only keep thinking about how she was almost Jessica. She was a little bit like Jessica Knight, and a little bit like the Jessica Day that had invaded his head lately. And from somewhere deep in his psyche, he realized that Jessica Day herself may not be the Jessica Day from his head, and that maybe the real, living Jessica Day was just as far from his fantasy as the girl sitting before him now.

It was a sobering thought, and the only thought more sobering than that was that he had a girl to get home to that was none of those Jessicas at all. And now, it was time he headed home. He stuttered out a, "Uhh, I'm sorry, I have to get going. I'll see you around sometime," and left the woman rolling her eyes at his abrupt exit.

Writers, man.

* * *

Nick got back from the bar late. Very late. Caroline would probably be pissed, but he was three drinks past caring about the shit she gave him.

He stumbled into the apartment at two am and the goddamn cat was up, scratching at the floorboards outside of their bedroom. The room was blurry before him, but everything looked right and wrong at the same time, like breaking into your high school ten years later and finding out they added a wing and re-did all the labs.

The furniture was moved and stuff seemed… missing. It seemed empty. Then, he noticed, a lot of stuff _was_ missing. Her coffee table books. Her rack of knives in the kitchen, her throw pillows on the couch, her television. Had they been robbed?

He burst into the bedroom and found his antique typewriter sitting on his desk, tauntingly waiting for him, but her desk cleared off. She was absent in the bathroom, her four bottles of conditioner MIA, the countertop around the sink conspicuously bare. She was cleared out from ceiling to carpet. If not for the cat, he would be wondering by now if she ever existed at all.

He almost paused before calling her, but then went ahead with it anyway, reasoning, _If she didn't want a call at two in the morning, she probably shouldn't have packed up all of her stuff and left with it_.

It rang four times before she picked up. "What the hell is this, Caroline. What the fuck is going on."

The first thing he heard on the other line was a heavy sigh. "Nick," was all she muttered for a few seconds. "I had to go, Nick."

"What do you mean, _you had to go_. Where are you? Where are you going?"

"Back to Chicago, Nicholas. I'm going back home."

This stunned him for a moment. "What?" he asked, blankly, before, again, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"_I'm going home Nick, I can't do this anymore_!" came her yell from the other side. She caught him off guard with that. He could hear her sobbing now, cracked by her own outburst. "I can't do this."

"Caroline, honey, let's talk this out," he offered, suddenly feeling a panic set in.

"There's nothing to say, Nick," came her resigned response. "We've already said all there is to say."

Nick was undeterred. "What are you doing this for?"

"_I told you_! I told you a goddamn hundred times! You aren't the same Nick you were back in Chicago!"

"The _hell_ does that mean?" he roared back.

"You're _always_ drinking, you never write, you haven't made friends! You just mope around the apartment and stare at your typewriter and you're wasting everything and I can't just sit there and watch you do this to yourself anymore!"  
"Oh, what, you want me to write more? You're pissed I haven't written? What I've done isn't enough for you, you're some kind of golddigger now?"

"_Fuck you_." She could feel herself this close to hanging up. He was, again, stunned by her boldness. "I was there for you, Nick, I was there for you for years." She was crying even harder now. "Don't you remember the three years we spent living in my parent's basement and calling it an apartment and eating ramen three days a week? Did you think I was a golddigger then? Did you think I didn't love you then?"

"I'm trying to get better!" he countered, just as aggressive as she was. "I need you now, and now is when you choose to leave me!"

Now she was just full-on sobbing on the other side of the line. The cat cowered in a corner, knowing well enough to be put off by Nick's fury. He felt the blood pumping through his head, every ache of his heaving body. He sat down, feeling his legs give out beneath him, listening to his lover sob from O'Hare airport. He had sobered up quick and just wanted all of this to be over. He came home looking for a fight, but not _this_ fight.

But Caroline wasn't on the same page as him there. "I'm not going to pretend this is working anymore, Nick. I'm sorry, but I'm not discussing this. I know where you are, and where I am, and it isn't working anymore. It's over." And a click. An _it's over_ and a click and he could already feel his one silent candle being blown into blackness.

He stared at the phone, only seeing his reflection in the void of the screen. He hated it. He threw it, never wanting to see the phone or his face again, not caring that it busted open on the shitty painting of some bridge in Italy she had hung. Of course she left that. The cat was freaked out by the battery that went flying but Nick was already throwing open the door to his bedroom and flopping onto the bed.

It took a minute, but he started to cry into the bare mattress, devoid of her high thread count sheets. Of course she took those. The only sheets he had were back in Chicago, printed with a faded Cubs logo and packed away in his childhood home's crawlspace attic. As a writer, he appreciated how his heart felt buried like those sheets, in some dark dingy little space under layers of the past.

As a person, he hated how he could feel his sadness inflaming his eyes and stuffing his nose. He hated that the only thing he had to hold on to was a cat he didn't like and a fast-fading dream. He hated feeling like the only living boy in this city.

* * *

_"Nobody gives a damn in this city!" Pepperwood yelled, banging his fist into his desk._

_"We give a damn. We're the best chance this lady has."_

_He nodded in agreement. "Everyone seems to forget that the zombies were human before. They were brothers and sisters and shopkeepers and mistresses. All they see is the bad, and bam, they cast 'em off. But they could turn. We could turn. Tell me, Knight, what would you do if you became a zombie?"_

_She gave him a resigned half-smile. "You know what I'd do, J. I'd be here every morning at 8 am, ready to make coffee and clean up your messes." Pepperwood tried to glare, but couldn't help but grin._


	4. i'll be breaking through the winter

Chapter 4

**Many thanks to Newgirl78 and all of my wonderful reviewers.**

* * *

_"Well if you had looked at the files I gave you, you'd have a better idea of what was going on! I color coded them and everything!" Jessica was frustrated. Her employer rarely matched her passion for organized research._

_In fact, he rolled his eyes at it. "Yeah yeah tabs yeah whatever. Gimme the cliffnotes."_

_She humphed, but knew that her telling him was the only way this would get done. "Fine. There's reason to believe this isn't an isolated incident. Zombie males 18 to 25 have been getting kidnapped at an alarming rate for 6 months now and nobody's paid it any mind."_

_"Shit," Pepperwood muttered. "This is a shit world we live in, Knight."_

_She nodded in agreement. "Well let's so something about it."_

* * *

"Hey, and, uhh, thank your writer friend for me, will ya?"

"My writer friend? Who are you talking about, Dad?"

"Yeah, Nick Miller, the Pepperwood guy."

"Thank him? What did he do?"

"He sent me a copy – signed – with a dedication. Here, lemme get it out." Jess heard some rustling on the other end of the line. "_Bob – always great to hear about another Pepperwood fan. I just wanted to thank you for encouraging my new favorite leading lady to try out for the part. You'll be happy to know that she's doing us both proud. That contribution to the movie is more than I know how to thank you for, so I hope you'll take this as a token of my appreciation. –Nick Miller._ Ain't that something!"

"Huh." A still pause. "Yeah, that is something."

* * *

Nick showed up on set the morning after the breakup with a huge cup of Irish coffee (heavy on the Irish) and a hellish looking pair of under-eye bags. It was early, but he was driven crazy in the apartment by staring at the ceiling and feeling his sweat sink directly into the mattress beneath him. Sheets was one of today's priorities.

The only person Nick recognized on set at this point was Winston. Nick gave him a nod and he came over to chat.

"Hey man, you alright? You don't look so good."

Nick shrugged, not feeling quite comfortable talking about it. "Rough night."

Winston nodded sympathetically. "I feel you. The director thing shook all of us."

"Yeah, sucks," Nick muttered, wanting to shift the conversation. "You're here early."

"I take this job just as seriously as when I was balling – first one in, last one out," Winston explained in his _post-game interview clichés_ voice. "You're here pretty early yourself."

Nick nodded. "Couldn't sleep."

"I can tell, man," Winston jibed, "You look like shit."

They both laughed at this. Nick was sure he looked awful; he had forgone looking in the mirror this morning before he left, figuring it would only make him more angry. Winston wasn't so bad to talk to. Like Jess, he had the ability to be blisteringly famous and still comfortable to be around.

"Honestly man, my girl left me last night. Back to Chicago," Nick admitted, staring into his coffee.

Winston suddenly turned serious and put his hand on Nick's shoulder. "I'm sorry to hear that. Look, tell you what. How bout you and me go out for drinks tonight."

"I dunno," Nick hemmed. "I'm not really into the bar scene at most of the places around here."

Winston waved off his indecision. "No man, it's this great little place, a neighborhood sports bar. Not like all of those bullshit high-end _oh my god is that Justin Timberlake!_ places that look like Schmidt's kitchen. Just good beer and the game on in the corner."

Nick laughed again at his description of half of the bars in Los Angeles. "Alright, I'm in."

"Solid. It's called Clyde's, I'll text you the address."

"Thanks. Thanks for this"

Winston shrugged sheepishly. "Yeah, it'll be cool. I gotta get to costumes and make-up now, though. Takes an hour to make me into Thresh. See you later?"

"See you later," Nick confirmed while Winston walked into the depths of the studio.

Just as Nick was about to go and find Schmidt, Jess walked in. "Nick! Hey! You look rough, you okay?"

"So I've heard," he grumbled. "I'm alright."

She didn't notice his grumpiness, though, pushing on with her sunshine. "Cool. Hey. You gonna be around for lunch today?" Nick nodded. "Cool. Let's get lunch then."

"Alright, I'm down for that. Two-ish?"

Jess nodded enthusiastically. "Cool. I'll see you then." She walked off the same way Winston went and Nick was alone again with his thoughts.

He was making friends. Look at him go. Part of him wanted to call Caroline just to curse her out.

* * *

Jessica had brought a brown paper bag from home with a ham sandwich in it (because you never really stop being a teacher deep down, she explained) and Nick grabbed some Chinese takeout. The pair sat on-set at Jessica Knight's desk, promising the crew not to get it messy. They discussed the director swap and how the Canadian filming went, but Nick could tell Jessica was itching to say something from the way she was nervously picking the crusts off of her sandwich and peeling the label off of her water bottle.

He gave her a few seconds of silence and she came out with it. "Dad told me about the book. Thanks, for that."

"Oh. Yeah, no problem, happy to do it," he waved off, never quite feeling comfortable with compliments or gratitude or _nice_ in general.

"No, really, it meant a lot to him. How'd you even find his address, anyway?"

Nick smirked and leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. "What, you think the brilliant detective mind behind Pepperwood couldn't find somebody's address?" Jess gave him a skeptical look and he admitted, "Fine, fine, I googled it."

Her ringing laugh was something he had missed over the last month. "Look at you, going through all that trouble. And what you wrote was so sweet! I guess being a writer comes in handy for the little things, too."

"It was really nothing, I mean, and all." He could feel a blush charging in and although Pepperwood's office was dimly lit, he didn't want to look like a total ass. A subject switch was in order. "The writer thing is great for stuff like this, but hasn't been so great for actual writing."

"How so?" Jess asked with a slight frown.

Nick sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Ehh, I… haven't been writing lately. Much of anything at all. No new stories, nothing."

"Well that's no good! Why haven't you been writing?"

He considered it for a second before shrugging and saying, "Rough couple of months."

She nodded. "Yeah. You didn't seem to be looking too great this morning. Anything you wanna talk about?"

For some reason, he felt nervous about telling her. He wasn't the trusting type, normally, and this woman had just swept into his life like a whirlwind and taken over his spare thoughts, gotten into his head, broken down his walls like nothing. Nick, after a lifetime of frowns and crossed arms, was feeling his wariness turn into weariness. So he just let it out: "Girlfriend and I broke up last night."

"Hm," she considered, taking a last bite of her sandwich, "I didn't even know you were dating someone. I'm sorry."

"Guess I didn't talk about it much. To be honest, we had been on the rocks for months, even back when we were living in Chicago. But then I got the offer, and we came out here… I was just hoping that it would give us a fresh start, fix us. But it just made things worse," he spilled out, feeling it all come crashing through.

And then he got worried. She seemed uncomfortable, like she didn't know how to handle it. She stood and walked around the desk, crouching in front of him and laying her hand on his knee, maintaining an uncomfortable amount of eye contact. He could feel himself gulping and the rest of the studio fading away, the rest of the world fading away, leaving him alone on a set with Jessica Day.

She licked her lips to wet them and began to speak, slowly, seeming to choose every word a few words before saying them: "It sounds like you've had an awful few months. I don't really know what to say to make that better. But I do know two things. I am here for you. That's one of those things. You are one of the few normal people in this city and being friends with you is gonna be awesome. We're gonna be such cool friends. The other thing I know is that you are an amazing writer. Seriously amazing. Pepperwood made me like zombies for a whole month before getting disappointed in all of the other zombie movies. Sometimes, I feel like I really am Jessica Knight, and I love it. I don't care what you write, just, please, write something. Write about a romance between two craft brewers, or a crazy woman moving into an apartment with three guys, or a journalist who's investigating someone who thinks they're going back in time, or a screenplay of hamsters portraying the life of Odo Nobunaga… seriously Miller, if you ever need a bad idea, call me, I have like ten thousand a day."

She looked at him expectantly, looking for some response. And, for Nick's part, he was trying hard to respond. The problem on his end was that he was stuck between being touched by her kind words and amused by her… unorthodox ideas. He began to smile, first a little and then all at once until he was laughing, and Jess was laughing too, so hard she fell out of her crouch and to the side to sit on the floor and cackle along with him, alone in Pepperwood's office. They had scaled back to giggles by the time someone in the crew came in through the open wall and told them Jess was needed in makeup for her afternoon scene.

Nick offered his hand to help her up and she happily grabbed it, springing up to standing very, very close to him. He had planned on something smooth to say, but only managed to choke out, "So, uh, I'll be sure to get back to writing," and if he didn't know better, he'd say she looked a little flustered too.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's good. If you ever wanna show someone…"

"Yeah, oh, of course, you'll be the first person I call."

"Good."

"Okay, good."

"I've gotta get to – "

"Yeah, okay, I'm gonna go too," Nick finished lamely, walking out with her and then in an opposite direction, just to get away from the – tension? Was it tension?

He got to the opposite end of the set before he had realized he had gone the wrong way entirely.

* * *

The bar was everything Winston had promised. Some baseball game was on a few tvs, preseason basketball on others. It smelled like the bars in Chicago, the perfect mix of beer and stale air, grungy-looking regulars and fresh faced casuals. Nick found Winston sitting at the bar and signing an autograph on a napkin for a guy wearing a BISHOP 44 Lakers jersey.

Nick pulled up a stool next to him and they shook hands. "Hey man, I love this place!"

"Right!" Winston yelled as he handed off the napkin back to the fan. "I'm gonna be honest with you man, that shit never gets old."

Nick rolled his eyes. "Maybe not for you. It'd drive me crazy. I'm happy not to be famous enough to have to deal with it too much." The two ordered beers and headed to find a booth in a nice dark corner where autograph hounds wouldn't interrupt their conversation.

Winston dived right in. "So, a break-up. That's rough."

"Yeah," Nick sighed, rubbing his face before taking a hearty chug. "It is."

"You think it's for real?"

Nick considered it for a moment before admitting, "You know, I think it is. We've broken up before, but I think this one's the real deal."

"Why's that?"

"I… I guess, every time we break up, it's always me chasing after her and making the apologies and trying to stitch us back together. But I'm tired of running. I think it's time I just let it go."

Winston nodded and patted his arm. "You know what you need?"

"More beer?" Nick asked with a chuckle.

"More. Beer."

* * *

**Drinks: 1**

"Serves you right for making Thresh a masked villain. Do you know how hot it gets under that whole damn costume?"

"I just wrote him, I didn't make the damn costume!"

"I know. It's alright. The costume lady who puts it on me every morning is pretty fine, so I roll with it."

**Drinks: 3**

"It was time, you know? It's not like when she broke up with me before I gave the speech at my brother's wedding. Now, it was time. And she's not an awful person for it. I even kinda get her side."

"That's a really reasonable way of seeing it."

"Yeah, give me a few more drinks and I'll be calling her a bitch."

**Drinks: 5**

"Do you think you're a great writer because you're fucked up in the head, or do you think you're fucked up in the head because you're a great writer?"

"I don't think I'm a great writer. I think I'm a shitty writer. My first draft of Pepperwood, I spelled the word rhythm wrong every single time."

"For real? How'd you spell it?"

"Fuck. I don't remember. I'm still not sure how it's spelled!"

**Drinks: 7**

"And the hell kinda name is that? M. Night Shivrang?" Nick emphasized his incredulity by pounding the table.

"Dude speaks the queen's English, so I don't know man."

"The last time he did an adaptation, it went so badly that fans of the series _deny its existence._"

"Shit. That's rough. At least there's one good thing about him being on set."

"What's that?"

Winston winked at him over his "coco-loco" cocktail. "Have you _seen_ his wife?"

**Drinks: 9**

"Yeah, I think Schmidt is majorly into her," Winston said, having spent 2 drinks talking about the director's hot wife slash movie's new marketing manager.

"Oh, good. For a week or so at the beginning I was worried that he was gonna try hooking up with Jess."

Winston gave him a skeptical eyebrow raise. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"I dunno, he's a successful, good looking guy, she's –"

"No, no. Why were you _worried_?"

Nick's eyes grew wide for a moment, realizing what he had done. "Uhh… no reason," he tried to cover.

"You sure? Cause it sounds like you like her or something."

"Nah, nah, definitely not."

"Okaaaay."

**Drinks: 11**

"Can I admit something to you, man?"

"You like Jess?"

"I _do_. _So_ much."

"I figured."

"Like, she's the only woman in this city that doesn't drive me absolutely up a wall."

"Hey, that's good man, I'm happy for you."

"No, but you don't get it. Sometimes when Caroline and I would argue I would spoon her at night and imagine it was Jess because I was too pissed to just sleep with that bitch."

"And now we're oversharing."

Nick blurted out a drunk chuckle. "Hey man- thanks for calling me a cab."

"Anytime, bro."

"Do this again?"

"Absolutely."

* * *

Nick stumbled back into his apartment building and thought this was as good a time as any to check his mail. He struggled to remember the combination before it came to him – Caroline's mother's birthday. It got him down for a second, but then he wrestled out the mail from inside. Something from his agent, cell phone bill, Cosmo, and an unmarked envelope.

Back in the apartment he threw the Cosmo in the trash (after briefly considering burning it in effigy) and plopped down into his favorite couch, tossing his agent's thing and the phone bill onto the coffee table where Caroline's coffee table book of blurry pictures of diners used to be. He opened the unmarked envelope, interested in how it had gotten there, before pulling out a completed paint-by-numbers picture of a tabby cat pouncing on a red ball of yarn. A blank corner had small, cramped but delicate writing: "Nick –I wanted to return the favor for sending dad the book. But I don't really write books or do anything else that's artsy, so I'm sending you the paint by numbers I've been working on. I know what you're thinking, but relax. Mom already said she was fine with this and says that you sound like a nice young man when I mention you. Hope you enjoy it! P.S. The yarn was supposed to be blue, but I made it red. Fight the system! Artistic license! P.P. S. The cat's name is Frederick."

Nick found the only kitchen magnet left in his apartment – a bikini'd woman from Cabo that Walt had given him from his trip down there. Caroline had found it out-of-place in her kitchen, but Nick insisted so she let him hang it up. Now it held up the only décor for his fridge (and kitchen in general): the art of the magnificent Jessica Day.

Things wouldn't be so bad after all, maybe.

* * *

_"Knight, what would I do without you?"_

_She took in all of the quiet office, the slow low beat of the fan overhead and light streaming in between broken blinds from the streetlamps outside. The discarded Chinese food containers from tonight next to the ones from last night by the trash. Pepperwood's hat, lying on his desk so he could run his fingers through his hair when he was frustrated. His signature move._

_She smiled at him and answered, "You'd drink less. But you'd solve less cases."_


End file.
